The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [54]
“Yes sir?” the butler said with polite inquiry, his skilled eye summing up Rathbone’s status as a gentleman.
“Good evening,” Rathbone replied briskly. “My name is Oliver Rathbone and I am Miss Hester Latterly’s barrister-at-law. I require to see Mr. Latterly on a matter of business which, I regret to say, cannot wait.”
“Indeed, sir? Perhaps if you would be good enough to come into the morning room, sir, I will acquaint Mr. Latterly with your arrival and the urgency of your business.”
“Thank you.” Rathbone stepped in, but instead of going to the morning room when the butler opened the door for him, he remained in the hall. It was a pleasant room, comfortable, but even at a casual and somewhat hasty glance, he could see the signs of wear and subtly reduced circumstances. He was reminded with a stab of pity of the ruin and suicide of Mr. Latterly senior, and the death from distress shortly afterwards of his wife. Now he had brought news of a new tragedy, even worse than the last.
Charles Latterly came out of the door to the right of the back of the hall. He was a tall, fair man in his late thirties or early forties, his hair thinning a little, his face long and, at this time, pinched with apprehension.
“Good evening, Mr. Rathbone. What can I do for you, sir? I do not recall that we are acquainted, but my butler informs me you are my sister’s attorney-at-law. I was not even aware she had occasion for such a person.”
“I am sorry to disturb you without warning, Mr. Latterly, but I bring most distressing news. I have no doubt whatever that Miss Latterly is totally without blame of any kind, but there has been a death—an unnatural death—of one of her patients, an elderly lady traveling by train from Edinburgh to London. I am sorry, Mr. Latterly, but Hester has been charged with murdering her.”
Charles Latterly stared at him as if he did not understand the meaning of the words.
“She was neglectful?” he said, blinking his eyes. “That is not like Hester. I do not approve of her profession, if you can call it such, but I believe she is more than competent in its practice. I do not believe, sir, that she has conducted herself improperly.”
“She is not charged with negligence, Mr. Latterly,” Rathbone said slowly, hating having to do this. Why could the man not have understood without his having to repeat it? Why did he have to look so injured and bewildered? “She is charged with having deliberately murdered her, in order to steal a brooch.”
“Hester? That’s preposterous!”
“Yes, of course it is,” Rathbone agreed. “And I have already employed an agent of inquiry to go to Edinburgh, tonight, in order to investigate the matter so that we can learn the truth. But I’m afraid we may not be able to prove her innocence before the whole matter comes to trial, and most likely it will be in the newspapers by tomorrow morning, if not this evening. That is why I have come to inform you so you do not discover it that way.”
“The newspapers! Oh dear heaven!” Every vestige of color fled from Charles’s already pallid face. “Everyone will know. My wife. Imogen must not hear of this. She could be …”
Rathbone felt unreasonably angry. Charles’s every thought had been for his wife’s feelings. He had not even asked how Hester was—or even where she was.
“I am afraid that is something from which you cannot protect her,” he said a little tartly. “And she may well wish to visit Hester and take her whatever comfort she can.”
“Visit?” Charles looked confused. “Where is Hester? What has happened to her? What have they done with her?”
“She is in prison, where she will be until she comes to trial, Mr. Latterly.”
Charles looked as if he had been struck. His mouth hung slack, his eyes stared as disbelief turned to horror.
“Prison!” he said, aghast. “You mean …”
“Of course.” Rathbone’s tone was colder than he would have made it were his own emotions less engaged. “She is charged